An Officer's Room in Belem

Padstowe nodded, but did not reply as he watched the doctor take up the needle and start work on stitching his side, his eyes shining dimly in the darkness, wakeful and worried.

Stephen thought about Padstowe while his fingers worked. In the secret war the captain had little experience, because however busy those months had been they were but months nonetheless. And yet... Normally after a mission, he would speak to Sir Joseph. He would have someone else who held the threads, so that it did not fall to him alone, who could give him advice and suggest courses or outcomes he had not thought of, perhaps someone who had knowledge of the arena. Someone he could talk to, for God's love - he grunted as he pulled the thread too taut. No, he would not burden Padstowe with that knowledge, when he was recovering. It would be so difficult to speak of in any case.

"Would you mind pressing your finger there, so that I might tie it off?"

Padstowe did as he was asked, pressing his right index finger against the knot, though it caused him some strain to lift the arm high enough to do so. He did not complain, and returned to watching the doctor's face.

"Just so, thank you..." Stephen cut the thread with his lancet and pulled his arm up, wincing. He sat back with a sigh, and looked at Padstowe, opening his mouth to speak. He thought better of it, coughed, and then said, "Did you find the sewing very difficult? It might help with your dexterity."

"It was tiring," he said simply. "And required much concentration."

He felt so helpless, and somewhat sidelined as Maturin saw fit to go out and not confide in him. De Sablieres was his case as well - perhaps more than Maturin's - and he did not appreciate that the doctor saw fit to keep him in the dark. It worried him too. The whole exercise was meant to be to improve communication of intelligence; so far it seemed to have lacked communication altogether.

"I am inclined to leave you my shirt to sew up while I am out tomorrow," said Stephen, rubbing gently at his temple. "It is time for your recovery to become an active process rather than a passive one, and something like sewing would be quite beneficial, I think. It will be tiring, and require concentration, but you will have to grow used to it while you regain your strength."

"Would you like me to darn your linen whilst I am about it as well, sir?" Padstowe asked, affecting a soft falsetto meant to imitate a young girl.

Stephen raised an eyebrow. "If I had any linen to darn. Besides, if a line of simple stitches left you tired, I think darning might be beyond you."

"I am not sure how effective I shall be sewing your shirt," Padstowe said, resuming his serious tone. "Flesh stays still and has some resistance, but cloth... I do not know whether it shall stand being sewn one-handed."

Stephen looked at his shirt, torn and bloodied where the knife had entered it. "Then perhaps you should try with both hands? I do not think it can look much worse, and you shall have the whole day to attempt and experiment."

"Can I not try and write instead?" Padstowe asked. He did not enjoy sewing, and felt it a bit much that the doctor was taking advantageof the situation to get his shirt fixed free of charge.

Stephen shrugged. "If you wish. I will leave a pencil and paper for you - I think it would be easier than a pen. Nothing dangerous, of course - please keep your discourse to superficialities, unless you plan on encoding them also."

"Of course."

He was thinking of recording his own thoughts of the matter; written in his own private code and then destroyed before they left for the Army. It would perhaps be better to write what he would like to say than say it, even if it would only be he that read it.

"Capitaine des Sablières bought you some books, I understand - are they to your liking?" asked Stephen, weighing up the advantages and disadvantages of a laudanum dose for the night, keeping his mind as full of trivialities as he could to avoid thinking about the day. He reached around for the shirt on the back of his chair, and began a continuous suture along the tear, gaining speed as he grew more used with each stitch to the tugging at the stitches in his own hand.

A guilty flush crept to Padstowe's cheeks.

"I confess that I have not looked at them," he said quietly.

"No matter, no matter," Stephen said softly, tugging at the fabric to make sure his stitches were holding. "I am sure they will be enjoyable or educational - I did specify no romance or philosophy for you. We discussed Anabasis as a possibility - that is well worth the read, especially for a soldier. Did the Capitaine stay long?"

"About half an hour."

It hadnot been a long visit; the capitaine had notwished to linger and Padstowe had not exactly encouraged him to stay.

"That was good of him - I briefly saw his men as I came in. Thierry is looking better, and his arm is very clean, thank the Dear." Stephen tied off the knot, his mind racing and his headache increasing again. He put the shirt to one side and gave Padstowe a shaky smile.

"That is good then."

The captain's worry increased as he saw the doctor's unsure smile.

"Do you want something to eat? There is some soup left in the bowl over there, along with a lump of bread..."

"Hmm?" Stephen looked over at the bowl. "What soup is it?"

"Vegetable, I think," he said, trying to remember the indifferent substance he had been given earlier. "Though it shall be cold by now."

"That is all right," Stephen said tiredly, reaching out for the bowl. "Wait, no. For God's love, Jonathan, why did you not eat this? I will not make you eat cold soup, but take the bread, now."

Oh damn...

"I was not hungry," he said quietly. Then gazing up at the doctor defiantly. "And I am still not now. You have it."

"It is no wonder that sewing needs concentration and exhausts you if you are not eating!" said Stephen, his temper flaring. "I do not care if you have to force it down - eat it."

Padstowe looked miserably down at his sheets.

"No thank you. Please. Have it."